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<title>'tis the fuel by Cicadaemon</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25228954">'tis the fuel</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicadaemon/pseuds/Cicadaemon'>Cicadaemon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Barkskins (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Friendship, Gen, Native American/First Nations Culture</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:34:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,177</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25228954</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicadaemon/pseuds/Cicadaemon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He tried not to think much about his past life. There is a distinct line between who he once was and who he is now. And it had begun when he had met Hamish.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hamish Goames &amp; Yvon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>'tis the fuel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I want to say first and foremost I am not an expert in Ojibwe culture. I did as much research as I could and I tried to be as accurate as possible. </p><p>Yaabshkiiwet/Yaabshkiiwejik means white man<br/>Odoodeman is a totem (these were apart of a clan system that the Anishinaabe people had. They were specific to the person and the role they served in their community.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He tried not to think much about his past life. There is a distinct line between who he once was and who he is now. And it had begun when he had met Hamish.</p><p>Who he had once been was the bastard son of an Albany merchant and a Mississauga woman. His earliest memories had been with his mother’s people, wanting to belong and knowing he could not. He had been told very early on that he was <em>yaabshkiiwet</em>. He belonged to his father’s people and nothing more. </p><p>He remembered asking his mother about it, not long after meeting the man. Her answer had been unhelpful. And then his time with her was done.</p><p>His father, he remembers with very little fondness. He wasn’t sure when he was taken in and if his mother had approved, but he had found himself in the house with plenty of white children who were technically his kin, with a woman who found him displeasing, and for the first time finding himself being called Ojibwe. An Indian. And still not one of them. It was an odd ordeal to have been called white for most of his short life and suddenly being told he wasn't white. But he had grown used to his deal in life. He was never meant to belong.</p><p>What little fondness he had for his father had come when he had been sent off to Boston, barely sixteen, to gain an education. He had learned quickly that though he taught the same as the <em>yaabshkiiwejik</em> and could write in Latin just like them, he was still an other. Still a novelty. Still not Native enough or white enough to belong anywhere. But by then he had gotten over his sadness of it and had built himself around the identity. He dressed like a white man for them, keeping the braid in his hair and bided his time.</p><p>And once time had passed, he left. He graduated with the honour being of valedictorian, and went home. Not to his father’s but to his mother’s. And though he was not one of them, he had felt more at home than anywhere else. He had come back to learn he had a sister and a new father who had accepted him. In name, he was finally Ojibwe, but he still heard what people said. He had spent too much time with the white man and spoke their language too well. But he also learned to speak Nishnaabemwin and others. With time he had built himself up. He had built a life as well. And watched it destroyed. That was a part of his life he refused to think on.</p><p>With that, he had wandered and wandered. Yvon eventually found himself with the Hudson’s Bay Company, as a guide, and he had busied himself in work. Again in limbo.</p><p>But that had changed with one swift move.</p><p>He had settled in some inn, drinking its cheap liquor, and keeping to himself. It had been three large fools that had taken offence to the colour of his skin, the braid in his hair and embroidery that adorned his clothes. He had no time for fools. </p><p>He had been quick to tell them off, and it had angered them further. He could boast a great fighter and if he had been one of his people he could have claimed a marten as his <em>odoodeman</em>. But as good as he was, as fast as he was, he had little time to prepare or predict the attack of an angry drunk. But someone else had.</p><p>As the man had attempted to lunge across the table, there had been a loud wack and suddenly the great beast of a man was lying on the floor. And standing above him, with the book he had used as a weapon in hand, was a young man with fire in his eyes. They had looked at each other then, an understanding being passed within a fraction of a second. That book and that man had been like a spark to gunfire. The other two had taken one good drunken second to realize what had happened before they descended on the man and Yvon had wasted no time connecting his fist to jaw.</p><p>The inn has erupted and at some point in the midst of it all, he had been dragged out into the street by the young man. </p><p>“I hope I did not cost you a room?” It was the first time he had heard him speak. His voice had been shockingly delicate.</p><p>Yvon had smiled at the man, touched by the concern. “Not at all. A mere stop on my way out west.”</p><p>The man had smiled then, something that Yvon would later learn was a rare thing to wrestle out of him. “My sister lives here as do I. You are more than welcome to a room. It's the least I can do for what I did.”</p><p>“What you did? You saved me from a solid beating. It's a kindness I did not expect from someone. Not here at least”</p><p>“And why is that? Have I not proven myself a better man than most?”</p><p>Yvon had laughed. “You got me there. I owe you my life, though I am afraid I do not know who I owe it to.”</p><p>The man had held out a hand then, that smile gone but replaced by a kind look. “Hamish Goames. At your service.”</p><p>He had taken the hand with no hesitation, somehow feeling this meeting was meant to be. “Yvon Kirkpatrick. And I am at yours.”</p><p>He didn’t think much about his past life. He tried not to. But he found himself reminiscing often on memories associated with Hamish. He had been pleased to learn that night in Alice’s home that Hamish was also a Company’s man, newly appointed thanks to his brother-in-law. He had found a great friend in the young man who had wielded that book with no remorse, learning further just how much fight was in him.</p><p>And when Hamish had taken on the mission to find his brother-in-law at the behest of his sister, Yvon had no qualms. He had followed him into the heart of New France and tried not to laugh when Hamish had threatened the innkeeper with a book, so reminiscent of their first meeting.</p><p>“I wish to be civil in all enterprises, but I will not be denied a room for my co-equal Yvon. Though he can speak for himself.” The tone which was used was one Yvon knew well. He bet the poor man could see the fire in Hamish’s eyes and shake at them.</p><p>Co-equal. Partner. Friend. There was never a word of being not white enough or Native enough with Hamish. Never a label which Yvon could not wear. Just friendship and care. An understanding. A place he could call home.</p><p>“Aye, he is deadly with that book.” Yvon had responded with great amusement, knowing just how true his words were. “I am not his equal in that.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>cicadaemon.tumblr</p></blockquote></div></div>
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